


Treasure Just to Look Upon It

by the_dala



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Physical Disability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26177290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dala/pseuds/the_dala
Summary: He is a great teller of tales, and so he tells himself that this one isn’t happening.
Relationships: James Norrington/Jack Sparrow
Comments: 1
Kudos: 75





	Treasure Just to Look Upon It

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published November 8th, 2005. Title from U2's "All I Want Is You."

He is a great teller of tales, and so he tells himself that this one isn’t happening.

When he loses his grip and takes a short tumble from the rigging, when he breaks a bottle of rum in his cabin – simple accidents, could happen to anyone.

If he waits a beat before firing a broadside for an affirmative grunt from Gibbs, it’s because he shows respect for his men, and Gibbs is close at his side because he is loyal to his captain.

He doesn’t read much any more because really, what could be more unseemly for a pirate?

There’s no call for the captain to take a night watch, nor to be on deck at any point after sunset if he doesn’t wish it.

Even when he can lie to himself no longer, he brushes it off. The pain is nothing. He has always sailed by feel and instinct, by listening to the _Pearl_. Every map he possesses is etched upon his memory as clearly as on parchment. His pistols and sword are respected even if they aren’t drawn. The crew trust him, down to a man, so much so that none would ever utter a word about it, not even Anamaria. As long as there’s light he can still make out the idea of things, and more often than not, the idea is the essence.

He has climbed the trellis to the commodore’s window so many times that his fingers and feet need no sight to guide them. And this is far from the first time he’s stumbled over the ledge.

“Graceful as always, Jack,” James drawls.

Jack gets to his feet, scarcely aware of the rising storm within until it breaks. Snarling, he lunges across the room and sweeps the lamp off the table, so hard that the glass shatters against the side of the bed.

James shouts and stomps on the remains in his slippered feet, before the flame can catch on the braided rug. He grabs Jack by the shoulders, shock blurring with anger in his voice.

“What on _earth_ is wrong with – Jack, for God’s sake – look at me, damn it all!”

He drops his head into his hands, clutching his skull. James falls silent. Slowly, carefully, he pries Jack’s fingers away from his face. Jack blinks – let him, let him _see_ if he insists – then opens his eyes as wide as he can to drink in the green until a shadow passes over the moon and he plunges himself into darkness.

“Oh, Jack,” James whispers, his voice a raw ache, his hands growing heavy on Jack’s shoulders. He smells of salt air and something warm, something that is always James. His skin, when Jack leans against his neck and draws a ragged breath in through his mouth, tastes bitter from the powder of his wig.

Jack begins to shake. James folds him in infinitely gentle arms, kisses his closed eyes over and over. Sinking onto the bed, he murmurs as soft as the sea, and his lips are cool against the sting of tears.


End file.
